


Respect

by Darksilvercat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Early Season 4 fic, Episode Related, Episode Tag, M/M, PWP, Rough Sex, Top!Castiel, absolutely shamelessly gratuitous porn, long since Jossed, remember when we didn't know the story behind Castiel's vessel?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:58:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksilvercat/pseuds/Darksilvercat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You should show me some respect. I dragged you out of hell, I can throw you back in.</i>
</p>
<p>Dean's dream discussion with Castiel at the end of 4.02 ends a little differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Respect

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal on March 26th 2009.

*****

_“You should show me some respect. I dragged you out of hell, I can throw you back in.”_

*****

Dean's eyes drop away from Castiel's, unable to hold the angel's gaze, and yeah, he's starting to feel pretty damn sure that this creature is exactly what he says he is. There's something so ridiculously inhuman about Castiel. Everything from the way he talks to the way he tilts his head when he looks at Dean, it all just registers as being _off_ somehow. Like he's read the manual but hasn't quite mastered the practical side of driving a human vessel.

Right now, there’s an air of barely contained anger surrounding the angel, and he has Dean backed right up against the kitchen counter. Dean’s brain is screaming at him to back down, to _back the fuck away and apologise_ , and he would, really he would, but he has slightly more pressing concerns. 

His treacherous body, apparently oblivious to the danger he’s currently in, is beginning to react as it always does when he’s crowded up against a wall, standing so close to another warm body that he can feel hot breath ghosting over his face. The heat radiating from Castiel is just a little more intense than is natural. He can feel all his blood rushing south, and is surprised to realise a moment later that he still has enough left in his upper body to heat his cheeks as he desperately presses himself back against the counter, away from the angel.

This, he decides, completely redefines his definition of inappropriate.

He looks away, tries to avoid the angel’s unblinking stare, but there’s nowhere left for him to go. Castiel has him pinned, _trapped_ , watching him like a predator watches it’s prey, and Dean’s never felt so vulnerable in his life. That feeling combines with the unsettling knowledge that his cock is getting harder by the second as Castiel stands literally fucking _inches_ away. He’s so close that if Dean just arches his hips forward he thinks he might be able to bring their bodies together, create a bit of friction and _oh, fuck no_ , he can read minds can’t he?

His train of thought derails as Castiel tilts his head slightly, eyes still blazing with anger. He has that look, the one that says he’s about to stare right through Dean’s eyes and into his soul, and _dammit_ , the last thing he wants right now is for the angel to know what he’s thinking because he’ll be back on the rack faster than you could say Halle-fucking-lujah. So Dean does the only thing he can think of; he brings his hands up, lays them firmly against Castiel’s chest and pushes at the angel, trying to get him away before Dean’s hips disengage from his brain and start doing their own damn thing.

Castiel doesn’t budge an inch. Dean pushes harder, starting to panic and struggle, too many conflicting sensations- _wanthelptrappedneed takecan’t_ \- in his head, but Castiel, God _damn_ him, doesn’t move.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean growls, suddenly furious at this impassive, immovable force, fucking _threatening him_ in one of the only places he’s ever felt safe, and he’s tempted, so tempted to punch Castiel as hard as he damn well can. He even raises his hand before he catches the motion and thinks better of it, but too late, Castiel has seen him move, and it snaps him out of his previous immobility.

The angel’s left hand flies up to catch Dean’s wrist without ever moving his eyes from Dean’s face, and Dean grabs Castiel’s wrist in an attempt to free himself. Castiel simply closes his free hand around Dean’s other wrist, and his grip is like fucking _iron_ , Dean can’t break it no matter how hard he struggles and fights. Castiel simply holds him steady, forces his hands down to the side and pins them to the counter.

Dean reacts on instinct, doesn’t even realise what he’s doing until it’s done, jerking his head forward and headbutting Castiel. The angel’s head snaps back for a split second, before Castiel looks back at him, annoyingly unmarked by the attack. His eyes are filled with a dangerous fire as he steps forward to secure Dean’s wrists behind his back, and before Dean can think, before he can process the action and the potential consequences, there’s an angel pressed against him, chest to knees and- _oh fuck_ \- everywhere in between. 

All it takes is a split second of contact for Dean’s body to betray him, for his hips to twitch, dragging his body along Castiel’s thigh, too many constricting layers of fabric between them for the movement to do _anything_ to alleviate the need that is taking over him.

There’s a voice, somewhere in the back of his head, that’s telling him this is a monumentally fucking _stupid_ idea. Castiel could kill him in a heartbeat, he’s going back to hell- _oh God, he’s going **back**_. This is so wrong, fucked up in more ways than he cares to count and he doesn’t even know if the poor bastard that Castiel has possessed is still alive, still trapped inside and no doubt horrified at the way Dean is barely restraining himself, barely able to prevent the twitching of his hips from becoming full-on thrusts. Worst of all, there’s a part of him, some deep, twisted and treacherous part, that just doesn’t _care_. Right now all he can think is that he _needs_ , and Castiel is right there, pinning him against Bobby’s kitchen counter with his narrow hips and apparently it doesn’t matter that he’s a fucking angel or that he just threatened to send Dean to hell, because his body is clearly not listening to his brain.

Castiel’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t so much as flicker, but his hands tighten painfully on Dean’s wrists, and it’s enough motivation for Dean to start struggling again. It doesn’t even occur to him until he’s already moving that when he twists his hips in an attempt to gain a little leverage, it’s going to press his achingly hard cock against Castiel’s hipbone, and _sonofabitch_ , Dean doesn’t even know if he’s struggling to escape or if he’s just trying to get closer. He’s losing the ability to fucking _think_ as he twists and writhes under Castiel’s unbreakable grip, anger and desire waging a war within him. When Castiel leans forward, pinning Dean’s hips with the vessel’s own, Dean just fucking loses it completely.

He surges forward and forces his lips against the angel’s, and he doesn’t know if it’s desire or anger that drives him to do it, but if he’s already going back to hell then he’s not going alone. So he presses himself into Castiel as much as he can, wrists still pinned behind him so he can’t grab that _ridiculous_ fucking trench coat and pull him closer. But the angel’s hips are pressed against his, and all it takes is for him to shift to the left and push forward so his cock lines up against Castiel’s, and _fuck_ , that contact alone is almost enough to make him come right there and then.

He thinks that maybe Castiel has frozen in shock, but then he was hardly moving beforehand so it’s difficult to tell. He strains against the angel’s grip, trying to get closer, and Castiel doesn’t move forward but he doesn’t move back either. Until Dean has to pull away for a second, because for some stupid reason he wants to _see_ , wants to know what his actions are doing to the angel, wants to know why the fuck he isn’t already back on the rack and screaming. Because he should be, he _should_ , he doesn’t deserve to be here. 

Castiel’s eyes are burning into him and he can’t look, but he can’t escape either, so he moves in again and recaptures the angel’s lips, thrusts his hips forwards and his dick rubs over Castiel’s, and- _shit, fuckshitsonofabitch_ \- the angel is fucking _hard_.

Strangely enough, the fact actually brings him back to reality slightly. His hips reconnect with his brain and stop moving, and his mouth freezes over Castiel’s. He draws in a deep breath, prepares to swear, to shout, to accuse and demand, and for a second he thinks he’s gotten hold of himself, but then, as if he was merely on some kind of time delay, Castiel moves.

He shifts Dean’s arms until he can grip both wrists in one hand, then closes his free hand around Dean’s neck, as though he can’t decide if he wants to choke Dean or pull him closer. 

“What are you doing?” Castiel breathes against Dean’s mouth, and the question sounds just as intimidating as the threats he had uttered just minutes before.

Dean can’t answer, couldn’t speak even if he wanted to, and there’s absolutely no fucking way he could possibly explain this because he _doesn’t fucking know_. He’s pretty sure at this point that he’s just trying to get off. Everything else is just a secondary objective, but he’s not sure why he’s using the angel, other than that he thinks the second this- whatever the fuck this is- the second it’s over he’s going to wake up and find himself back in Hell, so if this is his last chance to feel a little pleasure then he’s damn sure going to take it. 

But he can’t deny that there’s a twisted little part of him that just wants to fuck with the angel- _or just fuck the angel_ \- because he’s pretty sure that beings like him aren’t supposed to be getting carnal, that there’s some kind of rule against sins of the flesh. 

Of course Castiel is nothing like any angel he’s ever imagined, and he’s starting to wonder if that rule is even a rule or just another fucking fairytale. Not that it matters, because he’s already lost any sense of reality and all he wants to do right now, all he cares about, all he can fucking _think_ about, is screwing with Castiel the way Castiel has screwed with him, and that doesn’t make any fucking sense right now, so he does the only thing he can think of, he moves forward again, ignoring the fact that Castiel’s hand on his throat makes moving _really_ fucking difficult, and tries to kiss the angel again.

Castiel makes a low, impatient growling sound that’s enough to make Dean’s cock twitch needily. In an instant the atmosphere in the kitchen seems to change- from suffocating tension to _overwhelming desire_ \- and Castiel’s hand slides to the back of his neck and pulls him in. 

Their mouths meet, hot and wet and open. Castiel tastes _divine_ he really fucking does, like honey and cinnamon and some unknown spice, and Dean thinks he could easily get addicted to that taste. There’s a short battle for dominance that ends when Castiel rocks his hips forward, hot and heavy friction that makes Dean gasp in surprise. The angel takes full advantage, slides his tongue- his quick, fucking _sinful_ tongue- into Dean’s mouth, tasting him, _owning_ him.

Dean has never felt so utterly helpless in his _life_. Castiel has him pinned, restrained, trapped, and- _fuck_ \- he couldn’t escape now even if he wanted to. It takes a split second for that realisation to sink in, for him to understand that this fucked-up situation is now completely out of his control, before coherent thought abandons him and he grinds his hips needily against the angel.

Castiel finally releases his hands, and Dean can’t quite decide what to do with them first. Doesn’t know if he wants to touch the angel- chest, shoulders, arms, face, hair- or if he just wants to get him out of that damn tax accountant get-up before Castiel decides that he’s done playing games and rips him the fuck apart.

Moments later Castiel makes that decision for him when he grips the hem of Dean’s t-shirt and yanks it up. Dean’s arms raise instinctively as Castiel tears the shirt over his head and then stops, making no effort to disentangle Dean’s arms. He’s trapped again, this time within his own fucking _clothing_ , and he’d be annoyed, panicked almost, but he’s much more interested in the angel moving on to free his aching erection from his sweatpants than he is in being freed from his t-shirt.

Castiel is clearly thinking the same thing because his hands drop down, skimming over the smooth new skin of Dean’s chest, sliding down his sides until they reach the top of his pants, and without even the slightest hesitation the angel hooks his thumbs into the waistband and continues the downwards motion. Pants and boxers hit the ground in one swift movement, and then Castiel pulls back. Dean tries to follow him, desperately wanting, _needing_. But the angel presses a firm hand against his chest to hold him still and just stares at him, the look in his eyes undefinable as Dean bucks urgently against the counter, trying to re-establish some kind of contact.

“Is this really what you want?”

Castiel’s voice is low and dark, and Dean can’t figure out if it’s curiosity, confusion, or disgust in his tone. Perhaps all three, or maybe even a request for permission, he doesn’t fucking know, but he sure as _Hell_ knows the answer.

“Fuck yes,” he gasps, “just fucking _do it,_ “ and he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, can’t figure out if he’s waiting to be killed or if he’s begging Castiel to fuck him senseless but he’s hardly in a position to say no to either. Castiel tilts his head and watches Dean for a moment as though considering whether to continue, or maybe just considering _how_ to continue, before Dean whimpers impatiently, struggles free of his t-shirt and surges forward.

Castiel meets him halfway, and Dean’s hands find shirt buttons even as the angel yanks off his ridiculous fucking trench coat and jacket. The tie obstructs Dean’s efforts and he tugs on it impatiently until Castiel knocks his hands aside and pulls it off, tossing it carelessly aside. The shirt soon follows, a couple of buttons ripped in their haste, and then Dean is running his hands over Castiel’s chest and shoulders and stomach, feeling hard muscle tense and flex beneath his fingers. The angel fumbles with the belt on his slacks, a task made difficult by the fact that Dean’s hips are pressed tightly against Castiel’s. Dean lets out a strangled moan as knuckles inadvertently brush against his bare cock, and Castiel replies with an impatient growl, gripping Dean’s hips and shoving him forcefully back against the counter, before focusing his attention on getting unbuckled, unbuttoned and unzipped.

Dean is panting for breath as he watches, utterly captivated by the way the angel’s fingers move on his clothing, but Castiel doesn’t even bother to remove the slacks before he moves forward and pins Dean against the counter once again. Dean groans and bucks against Castiel, feels cloth against his cock and loses that final bit of patience he hadn’t even realised he still had. He growls angrily as he pushes the angel away, and this time Castiel doesn’t resist, allows Dean to spin him until he’s the one pinned. Castiel braces his hands against the kitchen counter as Dean drops to his knees- fucking _kneeling_ in front of a fucking _angel_ \- and his hands are much clumsier than Castiel’s were as he fumbles with the waistband of the slacks and the boxers, sliding one hand beneath the fabric, and the angel’s eyes burn into his as questing fingers close around hard flesh. 

The angel’s reaction to Dean’s touch is infuriatingly controlled, a long steady inhale as his jaw clenches and his eyes widen, and Dean isn’t sure if this whole fucked-up encounter is having even half the effect on Castiel that it’s having on him, but he’s fucking sick of being toyed with and he’s not going to settle for being some vaguely interesting novelty act for the angel. If it’s the last thing he does- and he’s pretty sure it fucking will be- he’s going to take this high and mighty sonofabitch with him, bring him right the fuck down to earth.

Castiel continues to watch him, all intense and purposeful as Dean leans forward, licking his lips nervously before swallowing the angel’s cock as far down as he possibly can, watching Castiel’s face carefully as he goes to work. Castiel’s knuckles whiten on the counter, his breathing becoming increasingly laboured as Dean does his damnedest to take him apart, licking and sucking and employing every trick he’s ever learned. Everything that’s ever been done to him he now does to the angel- swirls his tongue over the tip of the cock, lapping up the precome there before licking up the underside- and Castiel’s hips jerk slightly but his expression doesn’t change and he doesn’t make a sound. 

Dean begins to hum as he works, feels the angel shiver beneath him as he gently scrapes his teeth along the sensitive skin, and at _long fucking last_ Castiel responds, breath hitching as he lets out a soft moan, barely there but a moan nonetheless, and Dean smirks triumphantly, humming his approval around the thick length in his mouth.

He’s not expecting it when it happens, hadn’t really planned this far ahead, hadn’t ever fucking _expected_ to get this far ahead- no fucking pun intended. So when Castiel’s hand slams down over the raised scar on his shoulder and grips almost painfully tight, pulling him away and raising him to his feet, he struggles for a moment, trying to escape the angel’s hold. But Castiel is far stronger and apparently he’s done playing games, because he forces Dean back up against the fridge, and now there’s a solid wall behind Dean’s back- _no escape_ \- as the angel sweeps his other hand over the curve of Dean’s ass. 

He realises that he’s about to be fucked by an angel a split second before Castiel hoists him up against the fridge, before the angel lines his cock up against Dean’s ass and pushes inside with absolutely fucking _zero_ preparation and only Dean’s own fucking spit to ease the way. Dean cries out in pain, stretched too far, dry burn of friction _too much_ , and Castiel pauses for a second, slows his movement for just a fraction of a moment as Dean struggles to get past the pain, willing himself to relax as Castiel buries himself to the hilt in Dean’s backside.

Dean is pinned against the fridge, supported by the angel’s hips, impaled on his cock. So when Castiel shifts his grip and slides a hand along Dean’s thigh he doesn’t hesitate to lift his legs, spreading them wide and wrapping them tightly around Castiel’s waist. He feels the angel’s erection moving inside him as Castiel adjusts their position almost experimentally, until it rubs against something that sends a hot spark of pleasure shooting through him. Dean moans and wriggles his hips, trying to recapture the sensation, but Castiel holds him steady and pulls out. He arches against the angel, seeking desperately, and his cock rubs against Castiel’s stomach, sending another spark of pleasure through him just as Castiel thrusts in again and hits that spot, _hard_. Dean gasps and moans, throwing his head back in bliss, and Castiel takes advantage of the movement to lean forward and press his mouth to Dean’s neck, biting and sucking and licking at the long line of exposed flesh at his throat.

The angel begins to move, setting a hard and fast rhythm, and every single thrust of his hips causes his cock to strike that spot inside Dean, sending wave after wave of pleasure through him. Castiel’s fingers dig into his hips hard enough to bruise as he drives repeatedly into Dean, and Dean is breathing hard and fast as he finally dares raise his arms and wrap them around the angel’s shoulders to give himself some leverage, lifting himself up and down, meeting Castiel thrust for thrust, grunting with exertion.

Dean’s cock is trapped between them both, hard and aching and begging for attention, the friction against Castiel’s stomach not quite enough, and he drops a hand between them to help himself along, but Castiel catches his wrist and slams it back against the fridge. 

“No,” he growls in Dean’s ear, and the sound is so raw and guttural that it sends a thrill straight through to Dean’s dick, and _fuck_ , he honestly hadn’t though it possible for him to get any harder. It’s almost _painful_ , a build-up of pressure so intense that Dean thinks he may just explode if he doesn’t get some attention down there _right the fuck now_ , but then he remembers through the haze of pleasure that once this is over he’s going back to hell, so maybe it’s not such a bad thing? Until he realises that he’s not the only one in this race, and what if Castiel comes first? Is that what the angel plans to do, push Dean to the edge and then leave him hanging, send him back without giving him what he wants, what he fucking _needs_?

Fear and pain and pleasure battle within him, each fighting for a piece of his sanity and he begins to struggle. A panicked feeling rises in his chest, his heart beating dangerously fast and he doesn’t want to be here any more, can’t take this sheer fucking torture, and so he tries to get free, to finish himself off and finish _this_ , because this is _too fucking much_ and he wants it to be _over_.

Castiel doesn’t respond to his struggles save for pinning him tighter, fucking him harder until each thrust brings forth a whimper from Dean that’s half pleasure and half sheer fucking _terror_.

“Cas, please,” he begs, not even sure what the fuck he’s begging for, his voice strangled and broken and fucking _desperate_ , and that, at last, gives the angel pause.

Pulling away for a brief moment, leaning his upper body back enough that he can meet Dean’s wide-eyed stare, expression unreadable as he tilts his head almost curiously.

Castiel’s cheeks are flushed, sweat beading on his forehead and shoulders, and really he should look thoroughly debauched and utterly human, but for some reason he looks more angelic than ever, Dean can see it, can almost _feel_ it’s presence within flesh and blood and bone, and this goes so far beyond his range of experience that it’s all he can do not to give in, to stop fighting and go numb and just let this happen, but awareness is creeping back into his mind and he blinks once, twice, three times as he becomes fully conscious of the situation he’s in.

“You asked for this Dean,” Castiel states, and he can hardly fucking deny it, not when his legs are wrapped tightly around Castiel’s waist, not when even now he’s writhing and straining beneath the angel’s grip, desperate to attend to his own _still fucking growing_ needs. 

Still, he’s pretty sure that something is wrong here, because maybe he hasn’t read the bible or done his religious homework, but he’s certain that an angel fucking a sinner like himself has got to be blasphemy at the very least. He opens his mouth to ask, or to protest, or possibly just to curse at the creature currently buried balls deep in his ass, but Castiel has other ideas. He presses forward again, covering Dean’s mouth with his own as he rolls his hips again, cock jabbing forcefully against Dean’s prostate, and anything Dean may have said is lost in the cry that spills from his lips into Castiel’s mouth.

Castiel slides one hand over Dean’s hip, along the curve of his ass, and up to his back, splaying his fingers between Dean’s shoulders. For a brief moment everything becomes a blur as Dean is pulled away from the fridge, his world seeming to turn upside down as he loses touch with reality. 

Before he can figure out what happened, Dean he finds himself on his back on the kitchen floor, legs still wrapped around Castiel’s waist and the angel leaning over him, hands braced on either side of Dean and he has _no fucking idea_ how he got there. Castiel breaks away from his lips to press hot open-mouthed kisses along his neck, still fucking into him relentlessly, pushing Dean closer and closer to something he can’t even begin to imagine. 

Dean digs his fingers into Castiel’s back, and holds on, shivering uncontrollably beneath the angel as Castiel licks a long line up from the base of his throat to his jaw before catching Dean’s earlobe between his teeth and biting down- just hard enough for a little pain to mix in with the onslaught of pleasure that is setting every single nerve-ending on fire. He gasps and moans and twists and writhes, wanting, _needing_ more, each breath forced out of him with a groan.

When Castiel finally reaches between them and takes hold of his dick, Dean bites his lip to keep from screaming, thrusting eagerly into the angel’s hand. For all his dominance and srength, Castiel is almost gentle in the way he runs his fingers along Dean’s length, smearing precome over the tip with his thumb before he tightens his grip and begins to fist Dean in time with his thrusts. 

Dean knows he’s getting close- _so fucking close_ \- but he can’t seem to find release, and fuck knows why, everything is absolutely fucking amazing. Castiel’s hand works his cock like a fucking pro, the angel’s own dick buried deep in his ass, relentlessly pounding into his body and sending tidal waves of pleasure crashing through him. There’s a hot mouth on his neck biting at his pulse point, and there is _no fucking way_ that he should still be holding it together. He’s not even trying, couldn’t if he wanted to, but something is stopping him from reaching that final moment of surrender.

Castiel on the other hand never falters, never breaks his rhythm. He’s showing no sign of being anywhere near finished, and Dean realises that it’s _him_ , it’s the angel that’s holding him back, or maybe pushing him further, bringing him to a point beyond anything Dean has ever experienced. He wonders if it’s intentional or if this is just what you get when fucking an angel, because if it is- _holy shit_ \- Dean doesn’t know if he’ll ever want to do anything else, _ever again_. Except he won’t have the chance ever again, because when this is over there’ll be a whole different kind of fire burning his skin. 

Dean shuts his eyes and forces the thought away, turning his head to the side to seek out Castiel’s mouth again. The angel responds forcefully, crushing their lips together, tongue sweeping possessively over Dean’s as though it’s always belonged there. Dean arches into it, giving as good as he gets, even daring to bring his hand up and curl it round the angel’s neck as if that could hold him there, as if Dean could possibly control Castiel in this moment.

He tries to speak, tries to breathe the angel’s name against his lips wondering if Castiel will respond, but between shallow breaths and moans he can barely choke out “Cas-” before a fresh surge of pleasure steals his voice.

Castiel shudders at the unintentional shortening of his name, dipping his shoulders and hips and grinding into Dean more powerfully than ever, and Dean might be imagining it but he thinks the angel’s breath is coming faster now, muscles quivering beneath his hands as he drops his head back and breathes the word over and over like a fucking _prayer_ , a steady chant of _Cas, Cas, Cas_. 

Dean senses it before he sees it, Castiel’s self-control finally beginning to crack as the angel’s hips jerk, breaking rhythm for the first time as his shoulders begin to shake. As Castiel begins to come apart above him, Dean feels his own orgasm break free from whatever angel mojo was holding it back. It rushes over him, a pleasure so blindingly intense that he arches his entire body upwards, balls contracting almost _painfully_ as he comes, _hard_ , shaking and crying and screaming because this can’t end, not yet, not _ever_ , and he knows what’s coming next. 

Even as Castiel jerks and spasms above him, gasping and fucking _sighing_ as an unfamiliar sensation of warmth and wetness fills Dean’s ass, even as he lies beneath the angel, utterly boneless, shaking and unable to move, Dean feels panic flood his system.

For a moment Castiel’s arms seem to give way, and he collapses onto Dean, rolling to his side, one hand still wrapped around Dean’s softening cock and coated in thick, sticky semen. The angel’s face is pressed into his shoulder, breath hot against his neck for just a moment, before the weight disappears. When Dean finally gathers the strength to move, to look around, Castiel is standing beside the sink as though nothing has happened, calmly tucking himself away and buttoning his slacks before bending to retrieve his shirt. Dean watches the muscles shifting in Castiel’s back and shoulders as he gathers up his clothes.

_Fuck._

The _vessel’s_ clothes.

It’s a fucking good thing he’s already damned, because now that it’s over and Dean’s mind is starting to clear, he’s pretty sure the angel has just used some poor bastard to fuck him, and he’s not sure if that counts as rape, but it sure as hell isn’t a _good_ thing. 

Dean looks around the kitchen- _Bobby’s_ kitchen- and wonders why the fuck Sam and Bobby haven’t woken, because there’s absolutely no fucking way that they could have slept through all that. Dean’s screams had been enough to wake the freakin’ dogs in the yard let alone a pair of hunters sleeping in the same damn house. 

He realises he’s still naked, about a split second before he realises that Cas- _Castiel_ \- hasn’t made any attempt to put on his shirt. The angel is looking down at him with that frighteningly intense stare that makes Dean want to curl in on himself and disappear.

Dean swallows hard and braces himself, ready for some divine retribution, trying to stare defiantly at Castiel, although he thinks he probably just looks wide-eyed and fucking _terrified_.

Castiel reaches out and closes his hand around Dean’s left shoulder, fingers fitting unconsciously to the scar as he drags him to his feet, and Dean thinks he may as well die standing. Only his legs haven’t quite caught up with his brain yet, and when Castiel releases him he sags against the angel. He realises there are tears in his eyes, threatening to spill over, and he blinks them back furiously, unable to find the strength even to lift his head from Castiel’s shoulder and look the angel in the eye.

And then Castiel’s hand is on his back, holding him steady, and the angel lowers his head, soft hair brushing against Dean’s cheek.

“I’m not a demon, Dean,” he murmurs softly. “I would not allow harm to come to this vessel. He was a good soul.”

“Was?” Dean breathes, his voice still sounding choked. He feels Castiel nod once, wonders why the fuck it matters that he know now, after the fact. It’s not like it makes a blind bit of difference. He hadn’t known at the time, and that’s what matters surely? Okay so he hadn’t exactly raped the guy, but he’d had no problem with letting Castiel use the body as if it were his own, and that’s just fucked up on a level Dean can’t even _begin_ to comprehend.

He tries to push away, to stand on his own damn feet, but Castiel doesn’t allow it, making no effort to restrain him and yet Dean can’t escape the angel’s hold. Fucking unstoppable force and immovable object all rolled into one apparently.

“You must learn to trust me Dean,” Castiel continues, his voice barely more than a whisper, but full of force and determination, and for a moment Dean wants nothing more than to do just that; to put whatever shreds of faith he may have left into the angel’s hands. But then Castiel’s body stiffens beneath his as the brief moment of kindness slips away, and hands rise to his shoulders to move him back far enough to meet the angel’s eyes. “And you _will_ learn to show respect.”

The words, and the soft growl in Castiel’s voice sends a chill down Dean’s spine that somehow becomes a spark in his groin, and there’s no telling if the increase in his heartbeat is from fear or anticipation. He swallows nervously and drops his gaze for a moment, and the second he looks away the solid support of Castiel’s body vanishes. 

The instant the angel disappears, everything seems to come back into focus for Dean. The room seems lighter, the air less heavy as he collapses bonelessly against the counter, sliding to the floor in a graceless tangle of limbs. He needs to take a shower and get dressed and just fucking sleep, but he’s too busy right now with trying to figure out why the fuck he’s still breathing air, and too exhausted to really care about anything but sleeping for a fucking month.

Trembling and soaked in sweat, naked as the day he was born, Dean Winchester shuts his eyes, waiting for sleep to claim him. He doesn’t even care if Sam or Bobby finds him like this in the morning, he just needs to rest, to close his eyes and _not fucking dream_. So he closes his eyes and lets go of absolutely everything, imagines he’s still in an angel’s embrace as he sinks into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
